disarm him with your eyes somehow
there is nothing but inconsistencies
in his vein of moralistic thought
your eyes speak volumes
they can shred
and humanize that rationality
When I was trying to quit smoking
and we drank white wine from Mason jars,
you called my freckles cocoa powder
and I called your green eyes
I am learning how to be a grown-up
who pays bills, cooks her own meals,
and doesn’t cry at words like
I think I just want to be friends.
The truth is this:
Love is an organic thing.
It rots and softens.